


Oak, Ash and Thorn

by cuttywren



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: JSMN AU, Now with more magic, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7007248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttywren/pseuds/cuttywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It is, after all, exactly how I began myself when as a boy of twelve I opened a book from my uncle's library and found inside a single page torn from a much older volume."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This is not a retelling of a history, but rather a fairy tale of what might have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Hurtfew Abbey, 1782

\---

It was ten years to the day.

The years gone by had never quite weighed as heavily as they did now, though he would admit to himself that he had begun to feel them around year five, with nothing but silence for all he had called and begged and prayed.

He would give it one last try. One last time, and then he would forget all of this nonsense, shelve the book, and have done with it for good.

The book lay open on the table before him, yellowed pages rustling in the soft summer breeze that drifted in through open windows. Outside, the full moon hung heavy and bright in an ink-black sky. The wind in the leaves of the orchard, the quiet murmur of the river, it all sent a shiver down his spine.

If ever there was a night for such a summoning, it was this one.

His hands fidgeted, rearranged the bowls of honey and cream set before the candle one last time, as he took a deep, steadying breath.

The words felt clumsy in his mouth as he spoke them, quietly at first, barely a whisper, but then it grew. Over and over, until he was nearly shouting, commanding, dizzy from it all.

_A name_

He lit the candle, hands trembling.

_the King in the North, John Uskglass, the Nameless Slave, the Raven King_

The candle’s flame flickered, nearly extinguished. He stilled suddenly, waited, maybe this time--

Silence, as it had been for the last ten years.

He released the breath he had been holding with a choked sob, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. How could he have expected any different? Why would he come this time, when he had not before, long before the belief had begun to wane?

He shut the book with a snap, snuffing the candle’s flame.

“Those books are full of nonsense if _this_ is what they are telling you to do. This is hardly proper form.”

Gilbert Norrell felt a shriek rise in his throat, eyes wide as he let the book drop carelessly from his fingers. “You—“ He stopped, staring at the stranger in his library. “How did you get in here?”

“You called me here.” The man shrugged, arms folded over his chest. “In a way. Quite some time ago really.”

The stranger was not at all what he had expected, but truly, what had he expected? Norrell sucked in a sharp breath, “You are him? You are the—the Raven King?”

At this, the stranger laughed, and Norrell felt dread settle into his chest. “No, no!” He cried, holding up his hands now, long pale fingers splayed. “Do not be ridiculous. Do I look like the Raven to you, hm? What an absurd question.”

“If you are not him, then who are you?” Norrell snapped, his heart racing in his chest. “And why would say I summoned you? I have done no such thing, I have only called for the Raven King.”

“And I told _you_ ,” the stranger said, amusement playing on his words as he took a step towards Norrell (who shrank back away from him, holding his book up like a shield). “Those books are full of nonsense and near insults. If you keep on with this pattern of summoning, you are going to find yourself with a pantry full of irate, displaced brownies, or worse. Though with the manners you have, I am tempted to say you would quite deserve it.”

In the moonlight, Norrell could just barely make out the stranger. Blue eyes stared back at him, unblinking, and Norrell averted his gaze quickly. The stranger was dressed as any gentleman of the time, in a dark blue coat and breeches, his white shirt and neckcloth were clean, which left Norrell certain that he was no wandering vagrant that had crept in when he or the servants were distracted.

“Manners!” Norrell said, indignant. “You, sir, are the one invading _my_ library, and you,” he paused, blinked, mouth falling open a bit. “You are a fairy.”

The fairy grinned, a flash of white in the dark, as he took another step forward. “You catch on quickly, there may yet be hope for you.” He gave a slight bow, which was more of an incline of his head, the quirking of one dark eyebrow. “I am Thomas Brightwind, you have, of course, heard of me?”

“No.”

Brightwind made a disgusted sound. “What on earth are your silly books teaching you?” He demanded, and with a flick of his wrist, relit the candle so that Norrell could properly see his outrage.

“Nonsense,” Norrell replied, “So you say.”

“ _Indeed_. Are you truly ignorant of me? What about Thoresby, surely you have heard of—“ At the man’s cautious headshake, the fairy sighed. “Well, you have certainly heard of me now, and I am here through your fumbled stumblings through more summonings than I care to recall. More importantly, I am here to help you, Gilbert Norrell—oh do not look so surprized that I know your name, I told you, I have been around quite some time.”

Norrell blinked, curled his fingers tighter around his book, digging his nails into the binding. “Help? How can you help me?”

The fairy tutted, a smirk pulling at his lips. “First, manners.” He gestured to the bowls left forgotten on the table. “Honey and cream might have been a fine thing a thousand years ago, dear boy, but I myself prefer a strong wine for these sorts of talks.”

Norrell hesitated, considering it all. Fairies were, by their very nature, capricious and untrustworthy creatures, and all-too-often, quite dangerous. Yet, here he was, when no-one else had come, and Norrell had not agreed to anything, no terms had been laid out between them. The fairy said it was a _talk,_ and that he could help.

If there was even a slight chance...

Norrell reached for the bell, calling for wine.


	2. "But we've been out in the woods all night, a-conjuring summer in."

For the servants of Hurtfew Abbey, it was not at all surprizing to hear the bell ringing at all hours of the night. They had become accustomed to their young master calling for more candles, more paper, fresh tea, all while he worked through the night on his _studies_ , as he called them.

Joan Childermass had woke just before the ringing began, shaken out of a dream into a waking world where something big was happening, some key had been turned in a great lock somewhere, and things were about to change.

 _Ravens and hawthorn trees_. She pulled her maid’s dress on over her slip. _Would be the musings of a tired mind, had I not dreamed it before._

“I have it lass, get gone back to sleep.” She said, passing one of the younger servant girls, Dido, as she made for the stairs up to the library.

“They cannot see me unless I wish them to do so.” The fairy said, interrupting Norrell’s mumblings about _respectability_ and _if they see you in here the servants will whisper amongst themselves._

“Well, that is good then.” Yet Norrell still startled at the knock on the library door.

“Is there something y’ needed, sir?” Joan asked, and as she entered, a queer sort of feeling came over her, as if the master was not alone, though a cursory glance about herself told her otherwise. It did not help matters that Mr Norrell was looking anywhere and everywhere except at her.

“Yes, I would have some wine brought, the-the claret, some tea as well.” Norrell stumbled over his words. “And then, I am not to be bothered the remainder of the night, so long as this door is closed, understood?”

 _Something’s amiss here_. She held her tongue. It was not her place to say as much. Barely a year in the master’s employ did not yet give her the freedom to speak her mind or question, though it was only a matter of time. “Yes, sir.”

“Pretty girl.” The fairy said casually as the door closed, and Norrell turned a sharp look on him.

“I will not have you absconding with my servants, sir.”

Brightwind shrugged. “It was simply an observation.”

“I did not realise you came here to observe my servants.”

“You do not trust me.” It was not a question. “I wonder why. Ah! Let me guess,” Brightwind leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Your books. But I have done absolutely nothing to warrant such distrust and ill-manners. Do you treat all of your guests this way?” He paused, “Do you even have guests that pay you visits?”

Norrell felt his face flush hot, and his hands fidgeted nervously in his lap. “Yes, well, you may have not have done anything so far, that does not mean you will not before the night is through. I know more about your kind than you are giving me credit for, Mr Brightwind, and I know to be wary.”

The fairy cocked his head to the side with a grin. “Would you be so cautious of the Royal Raven, were he here?”

“Yes.” The word slipped out effortlessly, hung between them in the air, and they both knew it was a lie.

“But of course, and you would be wise to do so. He was as capricious as any of us.”

“Was?” Norrell asked, a now familiar feeling of dread resettling in his chest. “Not is?”

Brightwind gave another half-shrug. “Perhaps the long years away from home changed him? How would I know, I have not heard from him in near three-hundred years.”

There it was. Norrell felt his jaw clench at the fairy’s words. “You have not—but you said you could help me! How is this helpful?”

“What, were you expecting me to go drag him in here by his ear? I am not in the business of fetching sovereigns.” The fairy hissed, “But that does not mean you do not need my help. Why were you trying to summon the Raven King?”

“That is hardly any of your concern.”

Brightwind grinned and turned his gaze to the door. “I have made it my concern.”

That queer uneasiness had returned with some strength, and Joan did not bother knocking this time, tea tray balanced in her hands and bottle of claret tucked safely under her arm. As before, the master seemed very much alone. In spite of it, she could not help but ask, “Is everything alright then, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, just set it there on that table and you are dismissed.” _I am not sure I will be needing the claret for anything more than my nerves_ , he thought, sparing a quick look over to where the fairy was sitting, watching Joan as set down the tray and wine.

She hesitated at the door, hand lingering on the brass knob. _Ravens and hawthorns_ , bits of her dream came back to her, and she frowned. In some ways, the young man reminded her of her own little John, curious little thing with a penchant to get in over his head, even if he did not realise he was doing it.

“If y’ve need of me, Mr Norrell, I will be right up.” She said with a nod. It was not too late to march back in there and fuss about him until he told her what exactly it was that had him so on edge, what it was that made a shiver run up her spine as the library door clicked shut with all the finality of a stone rolling in front of a tomb.

She waited there a moment, and then another, fists bunching the front of her dress tight. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours, with nothing but silence from the other side. She sighed.

“Silly thing, dream’s got ye all worked up.” She muttered, as if trying to convince herself of it, and made to return to her room.

“She is gone.” Brightwind said, ignoring Norrell’s impatient noise. “No need to thank me, dear boy. I would not wish your servants to think you have gone mad, in here talking to yourself. Now then,” he clasped his hands together, eyeing the bottle of claret. “Shall we get to business?”

“I have no business with you, Mr Brightwind.” Norrell said, even as he moved to pour tea for himself, and then with some reluctance, a glass of wine for the fairy.

“I am not entirely convinced.”

“Why did you say you made it your concern?” Norrell held the cup and saucer, less because he wanted _tea_ but rather something, anything, to do with his hands, and to put a little more distance between himself and the fairy that had risen—with a very put-upon sigh—for his drink. “Why would you trouble yourself with my doings? You said you have been, what, watching me? Is that how you know my name? What is all of this?”

“This had best be a very fine claret for all of these questions.” Brightwind said, and for each step towards the man that he took, Norrell took a step further away, until the large oak desk was squarely between the two of them. “Do sit, you look as if you might faint at any moment.”

“I would rather stand.”

“You are being intentionally contrary.”

“You are avoiding my questions.” Norrell snapped, a nervous blush high on his cheeks and creeping down his neck. He was thankful for the solid space between them, and braced himself against the desk. “Which does nothing to make me trust you.”

The fairy watched as Norrell fidgeted with his cup, turning it round and round in the saucer but never raising it to his mouth. He held his own up in a mock toast, and then quickly drained it.

“Very well, I have made it my concern because, as I have said, you brought me here with your ceaseless shouting into the darkness, and so help me if you interrupt me you will not like the consequences.”

Norrell closed his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. The fairy continued.

“I have been watching you, when I can find the time, and I know your desire to see magic restored to England and your wish to see the Raven King return to his rightful kingdom in this oh so very charming North England, but you, my dear Gilbert Norrell, are running out of both faith and patience. It is a clear thing to anyone who bothers to look. I, as you will find, am an opportunist with a very deep desire to see my dear friend again, which puts us—however reluctantly—on the same side, you see.”

“So you truly do not know where he is?” It was all rather overwhelming, how much this fairy knew of him already.

“I have a few thoughts on it, lovely little jewels they are. But I do know this, your England is as much a part of the Raven King as his magic is a part of England. I was there when he fought to claim her, I was there the day he was crowned as her king. As I see it, with these two beasts so intrinsically tied, what harm could there be in waking that long dormant English magic, the King’s magic.” Brightwind poured himself another claret. “Which is where you fit in with this, so perfectly, I might add.”

Norrell swallowed around the lump in his throat. The fairy painted a lovely picture with his words, spinning them so delicately around Norrell’s desires, but at what cost? “It cannot be so easy as that.”

“It never is,” Brightwind conceded over the rim of his glass. He took a drink, savouring the wine this time. “But I am not here to discuss conditions or details tonight, I have merely come to lure you away from defeat. In that regard, I have been successful, I daresay. Though the next time we meet, do have something better than this claret.”

“You said it was decent.”

“That I did, and that it is. But claret is a fine thing for social visits and calling cards, not for business talks. For those, I would recommend a good port.”

Norrell blinked, uncertainty turning down the corners of his mouth. “Business?”

“I will be seeing you again, Gilbert Norrell, very soon.”

The candle flame flickered as if caught in a wind, but something else crackled upon the air in the library, in the wake of the fairy’s sudden disappearance. It was something Norrell knew, as surely as he knew his heartbeat in his chest. It was there but for a moment, and then faded, but he knew.

It was magic.

 


End file.
